[THE author of the Night Thoughts was born at Upham, in Hampshire, in 1684, and died on the 12th of April, 1765. The Last Day was published in 1713, and was soon followed by The Force of Religion. Young's unlucky tendency to flattery and toadyism early showed itself in many small pieces to persons of rank which cannot be said to have been regularly published until long afterwards. In 1719 Busiris, his first tragedy, was performed; and in the same year the Letter to Tickell on the Death of Addison and the Paraphrase of the Book of Job appeared. The Revenge followed in 1721. The satires composing The Universal Passion made their appearance during the course of 1725 and the following three years. In 1728 they were collectively published. Meanwhile the accession of George II. had been hailed with the so-called Odes to Ocean, &c. The Brothers, a tragedy, coincided pretty nearly with this. In 1730 appeared the Imperium Pelagi and two Epistles to Pope. Some more Pindarics followed. The first Night Thought was published in 1742, the last in 1744. Of Young's remaining works, Resignation, which appeared three years before his death, need alone be mentioned.] And, if a GOD there is, that God how great! SLEEP. [From Night Thoughts, Night I.] TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes, Swift on his downy pinions flies from woe, And lights on lids unsullied by a tear! PROCRASTINATION. [From Night Thoughts, Night I.] BE wise to-day: 'tis madness to defer; Next day the fatal precedent will plead; Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time; Year after year it steals till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. If not so frequent, would not this be strange? That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still. Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live," For ever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel: and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise; At least, their own; their future selves applaud. How excellent that life-they ne'er will lead! Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails, That lodged in fate's, to wisdom they consign; The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone. |